Quinntana Week 2015
by anticlimatickid
Summary: It's that time of the year again, and I've decided to partake in contributing to it this time ;)
1. Coincidence & Chance Meeting

A/N: Welcome to Quinntana Week 2015! Here's the first part of the Quinntana week series! It's still Monday where I live, so I hope it's not too late to be uploading this at 1145pm. Reviews are appreciated! I'm not confident I can finish all 7 days, but I'll try, anyways... ENJOY! [Don't worry I've stopped giving promo to my tumblr]

Day 1:

Quinn doesn't appreciate the sing-a-longs and the blaring of Barbra Streisand in the background. She could have been working on that history paper she has due in three days and clear her workload, but she's here at this party full of people that love and worship Broadway musicals. She'd agreed to be Rachel's chauffeur for the night, and she's starting to regret saying yes, because the brunette is singing with a guy with overly gelled hair at the front of the room, and although it's not remotely horrible, it's not to her taste, and it's giving Quinn a headache.

Santana doesn't appreciate the lack of alcohol and the amount of divas present in the room. Not only does she not understand the need for a large quantity of homosexuals with horrible fashion sense to gather in a room and dedicate the night to ridiculously high notes held at record timings. She'd only accompanied Kurt because she had been promised alcohol, which obviously isn't present, and access to some of the fashion pieces available at his workplace. But the bright colours and shoes that scream makeover are narrowing her eyes and she's having a hard time fighting the urge to let out her temper at the nerds singing in the crowded space – not to mention she's definitely not drunk enough for this.

She figures that it doesn't count as any sort of betrayal if she waited for Rachel outside the house, so she leaves, weaving through enthusiasts left and right to make her way out. It's not as easy as she had hoped it to be, because most of the attendees were holding her back, throwing "no ways" at her when she says the music wasn't to her taste. Had she not taken into account these were the only few friends Rachel had, she wouldn't have bothered to play nice and give a small smile every time someone grabs her forearm or blocks her escape.

Her hands full with a beer cans she managed to find in a hidden compartment in the fridge, Santana slips away from the crowd, throwing glares at whoever tried to grab a can off her arms, and anyone who bothered to ask her to stay and promising that she'd "like the next song, it's classic." She rolls her eyes before baring her teeth at people who can't take the hint that "classic" wasn't her style.

"We do worse back at Lima Heights!" she calls over her shoulder, at a guy bent over in agony, clutching his manhood as the door slams shut behind her. Quinn's eyes lift at the commotion, and her lips fall apart as her jaw slacks when she realises what the brunette has done.

Santana notices the blonde at the porch, and greets her expression with a raised brow and is met with a shaking head. "I've been dying to do that for a while, actually," Quinn admits, regaining her commotion, "they're too persistent for my tastes."

Santana chuckles and sets her stash of alcohol down on a round table next to her. Quinn is surprised the brunette had been able to gather such a large amount of beer at the relatively alcohol-free party. None of the party-goers were allowed to more than two coolers, and some even chose to stay away from the bitter drink. Her inquisitive stare doesn't go unnoticed, as the Latina cracks open a can as waves the can to something along the explanation of "secret stash" and throws a can with a husky "catch, blondie".

Quinn manages to grab it with one hand with proven difficulty, as the wet aluminium rolls around her fingertips as she tries to keep a grip on it, her other hand a vice grip on her phone. She wants to say that she doesn't really appreciate alcohol, but she hears Defying Gravity, and maybe even Rachel's voice start to seep from the inside of the house, and she decides she needs to be rather drunk to be able to sit through this ordeal, because Berry certainly wasn't quite done with the party yet.

 **-x-**

"My name, isn't blondie," Quinn slurs by her fifth can, as she sat on the porch with her newly acquainted brunette.

"I probably won't remember by sunrise, so don't bother with that, blondie," Santana smirks as she takes another swig from her fourth, a buzz from her back pocket cutting her intake short. She reads the message, just as a drunk Kurt, with another guy, which Quinn recognises to be caterpillar brows who had been singing alongside Rachel before, in tow, stumbles out of the estate.

The blonde almost comes up with a response, but Santana stands all too sudden, taking in the rest of the drink before tossing it aside.

"Looks like it's my cue," she nods over to the pair, the one with a high pitched voice shouting at Santana that he's "got his night covered", though Quinn didn't quite want to know.

Quinn almost asks Santana to stay, instead she says goodbye and asks for her name.

It hangs on her lips and on her minds the months after, leaves scribbles across her lecture pads halfway through class, and the face accompanying the noun haunts Quinn's sleepless thoughts.


	2. Roommates

A/N: This is Day 2, Quinntana as roommates. I took forever to write this because I got distracted by tumblr and hiding the fact I was blogging and gaming and writing at the same time from my teacher, so here it is! Hope you guys enjoy it. Sorry there's no real get together scene so far, I just really have a thing for budding relationships currently. I'll try to put at least one where they're together, I'm sorry. p.s. the prompts are all used as chapter titles.

Day 2:

Quinn really likes organisation, she so close to viewing it as a form of art. She organises her textbooks by height and subject, she hangs her clothes according to colour and season, there are a thousand sub folders in her laptop for every little thing, and she puts her stationery in mugs labelled with its usage. You'd figure everyone in a well renowned ivy league like Yale would be the same, and they are, except one.

It's no longer a surprise when Quinn comes back to her dorm room from lessons and steps on a form of clothing or another. She still tries her best to keep the other side of the dorm organised, which really takes very little effort because most of the clothes strewn around are black, or dark in one way or another, and there are minimal stationery and material on the desk (and the bed, and the floor) as well. The only problem the blonde faced was probably the speed whereby her efforts are diminished. Which was normally after a lecture or two.

"Can't you at least keep your dirty laundry in a basket?" Quinn asks, picking up the strewn pieces.

"Who said those were dirty?" the brunette calls from her bed.

"Then at least hang them back when you decide you don't want to wear them," she answers, hanging the pieces where they had been originally before Santana decided to try them on.

She's greeted by a groan, and a sarcastic "yes, mom" though both girls knew that the Latina was never going to do as asked.

 **-x-**

Santana's into pop punk at the moment, and she plugs her iPod to the portable speaker on her desk every second she's in the room. It's not awful, but the shouting gets to Quinn's head whenever she's working on a paper, and it leaves the blonde utterly frustrated. She often finds herself screaming at the Latina to turn the volume down, and its always replaced by louder singing on the brunette's part. It's supposed to get on Quinn's nerves, but it doesn't, and she finds her voice oddly calming.

It's a Friday and Quinn is trying to do a last minute revision for an upcoming test on Monday. The room is empty, since there was some frat party being held across campus that Santana felt the need to attend.

"There'll be alcohol," her roommate had informed her, as if it was explanation enough. It's a trend, Quinn had noticed over the months of her stay in the college dorms with the shorter girl, Santana went wherever there was alcohol. She's glad really, that the other inhabitant of the space was gone, because she'd finally have the silence needed for her to work.

She tries, really hard to make sense of the words she sees on her textbook, spread wide on her very clean table. Except her mind doesn't really focus like she wants it to, and she can't get a word in. And she finds herself humming to a tune Santana had been putting on repeat lately while she twirls the pen in her hand.

Forty more minutes is all it takes for her phone to replace her pen, her thumb pressing all the right buttons before she stops herself. Quinn bites her lips in anticipation, she's anxious, because Santana's not picking up but then she kind of hopes she doesn't, because she doesn't really know what to say to the brunette. Obviously "Hey you're at a party but I just had the urge to call you," wouldn't suffice. It's almost as bad as the state Santana's side of the room was in till thirty minutes ago.

Yes- she had cleaned the room, thinking the mess was the issue that was keeping her from concentrating.

The phone clicks and Santana's voice vibrates from the speakers. Quinn doesn't process the words falling out of her lips, but when the phone call ends with a chuckle from the other party, she's sure she'd at least done something right.

 **-x-**

"So, Queen Elizabeth called," Santana slurs as she pushes open the door to their dorm, wine coolers in hand.

"No alcohol, Lopez," Quinn groans at the sight of the glass.

"Who said it was for you?" there was a pause, as the Latina took a swig, before she continued, "I sing ten times better drunk."

She does. Quinn doesn't argue, because her mind was clearing, and she was processing all the information in front of her like she used to on normal days, Santana's voice ringing in her ears, a soft tapping on their hardwood floor as the girl's sultry voice filled the air.

It's not clear when the brunette had collapsed on her bed, dozing off as the effects of the alcohol she'd consumed took place. It's not clear when this started became a routine, but it has.

Quinn doesn't appreciate messiness, but she can fix that. Santana's music tastes bring her headaches, but as long as the brunette's voice takes over the mic, she can tolerate that. So she does. Quinn cleans after Santana, and Santana sings for Quinn, it's a give and take, but it works between the two.


	3. Quinntana at Work

A/N: A slightly longer one for Day 3 with more than a thousand words. My left shoulder is hurting like crazy from typing this so late into the night, trying to make the deadline since I got home really late today and have quite a packed schedule tomorrow, which is probably going to keep me from writing. Anyways, Quinntana at work, enjoy and review! Also, thanks for reading!

Day 3:

"Sorry, but Santana isn't in at the moment," Quinn answers, irritated by the large amount of clients calling for the currently non available brunette.

It's been a whole day of "Can I speak to Santana" and "Is Ms Lopez in?" s and it was getting annoyed. Not because she wasn't happy that their tiny law firm was growing, but because of her obvious lack of clients. She was the valedictorian of her class, she was a Yale graduate, so why was she stuck here answering phone calls? None of these made sense to her. Not at all. What could the girl whose highest achievement by far is being the co-captain of a cheerleading squad have over her? (Quinn got the captaincy back so she feels that doesn't really count anyways.)

Obviously the feisty woman had something everyone else looked for, that Quinn didn't have, or maybe it was an area she wasn't good enough in, which the blonde finds utterly impossible. She had trained herself to be utterly flawless in her work, her straight A essays from her undergraduate days a prove, as well as the numerous awards that decorated the office she shared with Santana.

It almost fills her with relief, when her own office phone rings instead of Santana's. But the happiness doesn't last long, because it's Santana calling in, asking her to deliver the files she needed for her next meeting. She tells Santana to "be more responsible and bring her own stuff", her tone not exactly friendly and her hands moving on a mission otherwise as she fingers through countless documents in search for the one Santana needs.

There's a chuckle from the other end of the line as Santana gives her the address. After all, no one knew that Quinn Fabray was all bark and no bite better than the Latina, and she'd made a point to exploit the girl's willingness to carry out her little requests, "as long as it's for the sake of the firm."

 **-x-**

"Oh come on Fabray, are you still holding the grudge from last week?" Santana has her hands on the edge of Quinn's desk, which she'd shifted several feet further from Santana's (it was the only amount of space the small office could allow) after having delivered the document, only to find herself tricked into a dinner date.

"You know you loved the lobster salad," she continues, when Quinn doesn't answer, her smirk growing as the blonde continues to ignore her presence.

"Especially the dessert," the latina licks her lips as she drums her fingers against the desk with purpose, "on this very desk."

That catches Quinn's attention, and also her breath, as she chokes on the air she didn't know she had been holding. Her fingers slip on the smooth keyboard, messing up the sentence she had intended to type, which was now littered with red underlines, the kind that irks Quinn the most.

She can feel Santana leaning over her, trying to lure her into repeating the mistake she'd made last night (maybe several nights before, but Quinn tells herself it didn't count). Quinn's hand trembles with shame, embarrassment and lust, all of which she manages to convert into anger, like she'd practiced times before. It was easier to handle this way, because Quinn is a groomed professional and professionals don't mix their work life with their private ones. So she doesn't, and she glares at Santana who puts her hands up in mock surrender, walking away. But Quinn knows she's the one who'd lost.

Quinn sends her mind into overdrive once more, comparing herself with the Latina and bringing her imaginary opponent down with each flaw. She's unprofessional, especially with the way she communicates with the customers, she's way too casual and into gossip, and also the way she dresses, her attires way too revealing for an up and coming lawyer. It works like usual, diverging her attention, but not as long, because she catches herself staring at tanned skin, _god do those legs ever end?_

 _You'd know, they were around your waist last night._ A voice, so similar to Santana's infiltrate her thoughts. It snaps Quinn back to work, but the husky voice is still burning at the back of her head, and she can feel Santana smirking in her direction, obviously having noticed the blonde staring.

 **-x-**

"Work it, Lopez," she growls over her shoulders when she notices Santana slouching by a shelf, uninterested in locating all the files needed for the case they'd be handling the following week. It was normal behaviour exhibited by the other, but it still irks Quinn, because it was Santana's case, not hers, and the prosecutor seemed to have no intention of doing her job.

"You're better at using your fingers than I am," Santana answers in response, sticking out her tongue and licking her lips in a slow and steady motion as to emphasise a point as she continues, "and I'm better at using my tongue."

It's double edged, Quinn knows, so she bites her cheeks and continues pulling files out of their place, keeping herself from showing any sign of being affected by the brunette's words as she continues on her search. Memories from previous nights flood her mind as she's caught off guard by Santana's sudden moan as she stretches, and it takes every ounce of self-control the taller girl has to bring her thoughts back to the search.

 _Snap out of it._ She mutters to herself, as she slaps another file to the heap on her arms, the beige folder fitting into the crook of her bent elbow as she runs the tip of her fingers against more coarse files.

"Snap out of what?" Santana grins as she pulls the mounting files off Quinn's grasps, alarming the blonde, caught off guard, and growling a "what are you doing" to avoid the question.

"Working it," the brunette simply answers as she sashays back to her desk with the documents, every sway of her hips intentional.

It's by sheer willpower and pride that keep Quinn from staring, and the familiar pounding in her heart from growing.


	4. Forbidden Fruit (THE CORRECT ONE)

A/N: This was so hard to write at first because I had no idea of what I wanted Forbidden Fruit to mean, how to interpret it. But this is the end product. For this piece I'd say the Forbidden Fruit is approval, or more obviously, freedom to love. I'm typing this on my free period between classes, and I was doing my literature work in between coming up with an idea, and the essay I had been working on invoked a few thoughts, which lead up to this. Sorry for the really long author notes, enjoy and review! It makes me really happy when readers talk to me about my works!

P.S I'm really sorry for the wrong title for Chapter 3.. Felt really bad about it i was so tired I'm sorry I have sinned

Day 4:

The pebbles are smooth against the pad of her fingers, they aren't, against the window of Quinn's bedroom. It's by the fifth one, which hits Quinn's shoulder when she moves to open the window, that she gets a response. She watches as strands of blonde fall out of the windowsill, framing the face she'd fallen asleep to nights before.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, won't you let down your hair?" Santana sings, so soft that it barely reaches the girl in question. It does, as the blonde visibly lets out a smile, it doesn't quite reach her eyes, but it's enough. The brunette lets out a chuckle, which she keeps to minimum volume as the pebble returns to the ground, hitting her right arm in the process. It's lighthearted interaction, but the atmosphere is tense and the two are visibly worn down.

Santana's eyes flicks towards the window on the other side of the house every now and then, fearing any movement of curtains or even a sign of light. Quinn's ears are aching and flared, keeping watch of any movement around the house. They bask in company and gaze at the stars together, from different points of views. But the one serene and calming activity sends their veins pulsing with fear, the bible sitting on Quinn's desk a solid proof.

It's toxic, the words printed on fine parchment paper, when read in her father's voice. The look of disgust when he first saw their linked hands, and the cold eyes of hatred, when he spoke of the Lord's disdain for such behavior. "You're a Fabray, and no one in this household will go against the Lord's words, not as long as my soul exists," he'd warned.

So she sits in her room, her fists clenched, eyes tightly shut as she willed her tears not to fall. Quinn wishes for her father's view to change when the cross held to her heart, the same beating one that longs to hear the voice of a certain Latina. It doesn't work, and her father goes as far as to hire authorities to 'clean the house of the dirt that Hispanic fag had brought about'. She grits her teeth as the man explains, sitting in his palm a worn copy of the bible. She's tired, that's what she says when she slams the door in his face.

But she still hears the man chanting outside her door, and so with quivering lips and an unsteady breath, she prays for her father's death. She almost laughs as she ends her sentence with 'Amen'. It's ironic. Why would he be in her favor, when her father had been a much more loyal and faithful follower?

It's not supposed to work, and she's surprised when she hears her father coughing on her descent to breakfast, his body jerking with the impact of his coughs. She's not supposed to be thanking Jesus for this, but she does, as she whispers silent prayers before breakfast, her gratitude sincere.

Of course her father doesn't die, that would be too much of a miracle. But her father grows dull, he loses track of many things, like the time Quinn's cheerleading practice is supposed to end, and the supposedly "safe" friends Quinn is allowed to hang out with. He doesn't even catch Quinn flinch when she accidentally says that she'd be sleeping over at Rachel's house, whom the older figure had obviously crossed out the list because of her religion.

He doesn't take much mind to notice Quinn's days out being more and more frequent, or the fact that Quinn was arriving home later and later. His lights dim earlier, and he grows oblivious to noise outside of his room when is eyes shut from exhaustion. The other members of the household do notice, but they keep mum, the melancholy in the blonde's eyes enough a reason for their lips to stay shut.

It didn't matter what faith one had, any being having seen the hollow soul the two girls had become would have done the same. They were in love, but that no longer showed. They were so good at hiding that fact, no one could doubt the fact that they were 'just friends.' She no longer feels a rush when the tips of Santana's fingers meet her skin. Instead she's overwhelmed with calm and reassurance, it's so unreal that she finds cool diluted salt leave trails down her cheeks.

The cold sensation is replaced by the warmth of Santana's fingers and the girl's husky voice chanting 'just a while more' as if it would make time pass by faster, speeding them towards graduation. She'd filed for colleges miles away from Lima, away from her restraints, away from watchful eyes. All she wants is to feel the thrill of loving Santana again, but she settles for the short hours of company, listing out items she'd bring along on her great escape.

She's crowned Valedictorian with numerous Ivy League acceptance letters in her possession, stowed underneath her pillows back at home. Her father doesn't know she'd applied to Yale, having always been in favor of Harvard, he'd assumed that's where she went. But that's a letter that doesn't show in Santana's pile of acceptance letters, but Yale does show up, so that's where they're headed.

It's graduation day, and her father doesn't show, and that's the first day of many that her peers actually see the blonde smile an actual smile, one that lights up her eyes. It's then that they see a shadow of the Quinn they'd come to know. The room rings with applause, but all she feels when she leaves the stage are Santana's arms around her, and the words tumbling out of Santana's lips.

"We made it."

Quinn nods, and she lets out a shaky breath of relief. It stabilizes days after, reality of New Haven setting in. As she books herself and Santana into their new apartment. Only then, when Santana's lips meet hers, had she felt the adrenaline, a pulse return, and it makes her feel alive.

They've made it.


	5. Secrets

A/N: Okay so this is going to be a filler for the Day 4, many cut scenes, the in-betweens during the period where they have yet to escape from Lima, where they keep their meetings/interactions/relationship a secret the main secret being the stolen moments of happiness. I'm having kind of a writer's block after finishing a 1.2k essay on a Shakespeare poem, so please bear with this, and also the lack of ideas (which is why this was uploaded at a later timing than usual). Anyways, I hope this was at least borderline acceptable?

Day 5:

They steal glances at each other during cheerleading practice, masking it with rivalry as they stare the other down, rough contact while running laps around the field to hide their need to be touching each other. All these to avoid being caught.

"Hurry up! The bell's going to ring in forty and I want all of you in class before that rusty thing even hints of making any noise!" Quinn shouts over running water, and Santana herds the rest out by sending glares their way. They eventually file out before the twenty minute mark, in fear of being blacklisted by either of the two co-captains, or more bluntly put, the chances of being put to the bottom of the pyramid and extra cardio.

The two pair of eyes meet after the last Cheerio exits the shower room, her pace exceptionally fast, grins break out as the make for the nearest stall at record speed. It's moments like this, that they show affection for each other on school grounds, because neither is ready to risk losing the spot on the top of the food chain that they've worked so hard to get to. But that's just an excuse, they're not going to lose the spot, not with Sue Sylvester and the armour of the Cheerio uniform on their toned bodies. They're afraid, of Quinn's father, of Santana's abuela, of rejection. So they keep these embraces and pressed lips a secret.

 **-x-**

Santana chews at the tip of her pen as Schuester makes another point of jabbing stereotypes that aren't true in her face. She's trying to contain her anger, as he breaks out into La Cucaracha at the front of the classroom. She wants to scream at him, lines and lines of Spanish insults swirling her brain. It's tamed of course, by the gentle fingers Quinn puts against her thigh, her index finger writing another method of revenge on her skin. So the brunette focuses on the letters Quinn is tracing and on piecing them together to form full sentences, narrowing her eyes in concentration, ridding the middle aged man out of her head.

She smirks when she has the messaged deciphered, and moves her right hand down to meet Quinn's, lacing them together as she rubs circles against the blonde's thumb in approval. She constructs a list of complains she'd throw at Figgins about the Spanish teacher, throwing in a few threats in the name of Sylvester, while working on the pre-assigned essay with her left hand. In that moment, Santana was glad she'd mastered the art of being able to write with both hands, because her hand doesn't leave Quinn's until the lesson ends.

 **-x-**

Quinn sings, alongside Sam in glee club, and she's making a lot of eye contact with the guitar player, her well-practiced looks of affection convincing both her duet partner and the rest of the glee club. Except one Latina, who lets out a sarcastic "So freaking charming", scoffing at the smitten football player. She's silenced however, when Quinn directs a glare her way, a not so subtle hint at Santana to shut up and not spoil the act.

So the rest of the performance goes smoothly, and the other members are too used to the brunette's snarky remarks and the two co-captain's ever-present mutual hatred to care. But there is a lack of making out later that night, and also a lot more whining from one half of the pair.

 **-x-**

"I'm going to a sleepover at Santana's," she explains, as she rushes out of the house, her haversack slung over her shoulder as her father lets out a low pitched noise in acknowledgement. She's nervous, because she's not used to lies weighing so much on her shoulders. It's technically not a lie, she reassures herself as she locks the door behind her. It's only an assumption on her parents' part that there would be other girls present.

She opens the door of the four-wheel with fingers sticky with sweat, her breath held still in her lungs. Relief only hits her when Santana pulls the car out of the driveway.

"What if he finds out?" Quinn breathes out, her eyes rolling around. She relaxes when she feels Santana's hand squeeze hers, and soft denials of "he won't" s feel her ears. It's eventual, the truth will always be uncovered, but anyone would've liked to believe otherwise, to feel safe, because it was by nature that we remain hopeful.

 **-x-**

"My parents are okay with it," Santana spits the moment she pushes open her door to her room, Quinn sitting on the middle of the carpet beside her bed. There's a moment of silence, of breathing being regulated. Then there's the eventual spread of grins across their faces, their cheekbones aching by the end of the night, but most of all there's fear, because there's still Quinn's father, and they know too well to even dream of a positive reaction.

They choose forget, just for that night, that if the sleepover and making out had taken place at the Fabray household, they wouldn't be cuddling in the comfort of fresh linen sheets, bent over the blonde's almost finished English essay, but out on the streets, showered with rose water and salt, along with insults of someone who doesn't understand.

 **-x-**

There had been screaming and shouting. "It's not love," and "dyke" bouncing off the walls as Quinn holds back tears, only to let them fall onto the brunette's chest as she pats against her back. Santana doesn't know how to comfort someone, and Quinn isn't used to being comforted, they were so used to playing their untouchable roles that they weren't used these humane actions. They weren't used to being hurt, or seeing the other hurt. So Quinn cries, and Santana does the one thing she'd learnt in glee club. She sings, her voice a rhythm for Quinn to cry to.

It's no longer a defence mechanism when they choose to hide the relationship this time around. It's a secret, because Santana doesn't want to hear the gathering of Quinn's tears again, and Quinn doesn't want to hear Santana's voice crack with hurt when she sings such lovely words.


	6. Wanna Bet?

A/N: Here's the sixth instalment of the week! Not sure what I'm going to write next week though, but I'm stuck on a few math sums due on Monday so I'm probably going to submit the one-shot I had been working on for quite a while. Anyways enjoy and leave reviews!

Day 6:

"I'll die!" Santana groans when Quinn replaces the mug of coffee on her desk with a glass of milk. It's 2am in the morning and the brunette is working on a thesis on Shakespeare's "All the World's A Stage" and she was having a hard time deciphering the simple yet profoundly cliché poem. English Literature was obviously not the Latina's area of expertise, mainly because it harboured so much sophistication and metaphors that beat around the bush and this just doesn't sit right with her brutally honest soul.

"Only if you continue consuming caffeine at that rate," Quinn's argument cascades on, not settling in the brunette's mind as the shorter girl's eyes focuses on the coffee running down the sink of their apartment. The blonde goes on about how it's actually not difficult to stay awake and energised as long one doesn't wakeup in the middle of a sleep cycle.

She tries to prove her point by waking Santana forty minutes before class, by the end of her fourth sleep cycle. The brunette doesn't put up a fight, because she was mainly too groggy to comprehend the situation, trudging along to the kitchen counter, preparing to claim her daily dosage of caffeine once she'd freshened up.

Except the black liquid is nowhere to be found. She frowns as she searches the cupboards and kitchen shelves for coffee beans – hell she'd even settle for 3-in-1 coffee packages right now. It strikes her that this was Quinn's doing, because even the fridge was rid of cold coffee, which was bought as backup for when the Latina had run out. She growls Quinn's name, anger taking over her drowsiness as she taps her feet against the wooden floor.

"I see you're awake," the blonde bustles on around the house, busy with her own morning routine and getting ready, sliding on a watch as she places a kiss on Santana's cheek and humming as she packs the materials she needs into her messenger bag.

"Don't act like you have nothing to do with it," Santana frowns as the fabric Quinn has on slips by her fingertips as the blonde easily evades the initiated caffeine. The other simply paid her no heed as she walks into the kitchen and starts piling yoghurt and fruits into a bowl.

"We're going to be late if you don't get ready," Quinn simply reminds her, nodding her head in the general direction of the wall clock while she drizzles honey atop her breakfast. There's groaning and whining, about how a person is not supposed to function – much less put together an outfit – without the aid of good old black coffee.

The brunette comes out of the room with her bed hair still a mess slung over the right side of her head, now donning a tank top and skinny jeans. She mutters something about how the excessive amount of black she has on a reminder (and warning) to fellow students about the cup of black missing from her day, glaring at Quinn as she downs the orange juice remaining in the blonde's cup.

"You look great, San," the compliment is met with a raised brow from behind the tall glass, "and I promise you won't fall asleep in class, not with me beside you."

"Oh watch me," the brunette scowls as she rinses the container. Quinn scoffs as she fills her mouth with another spoonful of yoghurt, saying something along the lines of "watching you struggle to keep up in lit class isn't really entertaining." But it's muffled by the fruits in her mouth, so the brunette doesn't catch it except for the last few words.

"I'm betting my livestock on this blondie," she leans over the opposite side of the dining table just as Quinn moves to set the bowl in the sink and do a double check of the items she has in her bag. She's waved off, and she's unhappy, so she takes to lacing up a pair of black high cut converses up her ankles in her own form of rebellion.

"Silent means consent, Fabray," Santana nags as she descends the flight of stairs behind Quinn to the street where their shared vehicle was parked. The car beeping as it unlocks is the only response the Latina gets as she sulks, her eyebrows drawing closer as she slams the door to the passenger seat, disclaiming "drive your decaf ass to school" when Quinn stops outside the passenger seat.

 **-x-**

It was a bad idea to let Quinn drive, because she doesn't like talking while driving, saying that it'd affect her focus and get them into some horrid accident, and Santana's eyelids aren't having second thoughts about settling her into peaceful slumber through the drive. This gives the cranky Latina an energy boost, and by the time she sits down in class, she's no longer tired, and she's having a hard time falling asleep.

She tries to block out the sunlight with her arms as she cowers her head behind her tanned limbs, but it doesn't work and the professor's monotonous droning about some other Shakespearean work isn't lulling her to sleep like usual. Santana's frustrated, not because she wasn't falling asleep in the middle of Literature, which was a miracle, but because her coffee was at stake, and those were high quality stuff, it cost her wallet a lot of pain.

"Aw, do you need me to sing you a lullaby?" Quinn coos beside her, and Santana lets out a growl as she shoots a glare at her girlfriend. She squeezes her eyes shut in response, but turns to frown when she feels the ball of Quinn's ankle against her calf.

"That's cheating, blondie," she groans as the lecturer goes on about the great romance Shakespeare has crafted. She badly wants to shout at the top of her lungs that if Romeo and Juliet was applied to her life right now,that poison would be caffeine and she'd very much happily down it all. She's sure her Juliet wouldn't though, and would be pretty eager to get rid of the rest of the cup's contents.

 **-x-**

"Romeo, romeo, where art thou? Romeo?" she cries as she finds the shelves still empty – expected, because she lost the bet.

"He's dead, Santana," the blonde scoffs as she settles for another early morning tantrum, as Santana storms out dressed in full black, again.

"Oh he still lives in my heart, darling," Quinn finds her eyes rolling more often than not nowadays, and she's starting to question whether the newly energised Santana was worth keeping, seeing as the brunette had taken a liking to scarfing down the contents of her juice carton. She shrugs, telling herself that she's saving Santana more years of life by putting up with her tantrums and keeping her away from caffeine, which she had too much of at such a young age.

But Santana can't quite say the same, because instead of not knowing what had gone on during the majority of her classes, she now had to put up with boring classes as she somehow manages to stay awake throughout the day without the adrenaline caffeine brought coursing in her blood.


	7. I Do

A/N: The last part of Quinntana Week is here, the last day (also ironically it's the last day of my holidays as well). I don't know how to go on, throwing such angst into the ending submission. Forgive me, and also thanks to all those who have been constant supporters! Especially one of the guest reviewers, who had reviewed for all the chapters? THANK YOU GUYS.

p.s. please make space for some shameless self-promo here since it's the last chapter already! Head over to my tumblr and talk to me about the fic maybe? ; anyways another thank you for all those that have favorited/followed the story and reviewers (again). Really, thanks guys.

Day 7:

"She's not the only one who would have taken the vow with you"

She said yes. Reality drums itself into her head, straight down her throat and through her heart. She finds herself congratulating Santana, forcing laughter out of her constricting throat as the glee club rambles on about how perfect a couple she and Brittany made. She laughs because it stops her eyes from watering. She makes an effort to send a disapproving look Kurt's way when he stands against the engagement, even when she agrees, for all the wrong and very different reasons. Yet she nods along to Tina's words, even when she knows that she would be able to love her more than Brittany ever will, because she did, and still does.

"Quinn?" the way she says her name so different, in a way that makes her stop breathing, chokes her this time around. She tries to convince herself that everything's fine, like she does all the other times she sweeps pieces of her broken heart into a closet. But then she asks if she's alright, and this time she finds herself picking up the pieces instead, because she wasn't exactly inside the closet anymore, not after that night. The night that she had Santana to herself, the way she had always wanted, under a drunken disguise.

"I was saying," that you could be my bridesmaid. She interrupts, saying that she'd heard the first time round. She agrees, with no intention to show up at the wedding. She feels the walls of the choir room narrowing, as Santana beams, her fingers intertwined with the other blonde. She pretends that the coarse, thick digits tangled with hers belonged to Santana, it only makes her pity herself even more. She smiles when Puck makes a comment about how great she'd look as the bridesmaid and only disagrees in her head, to herself. I'd look and feel better in the wedding dress. The smile on her face falters as soon as Santana turns her back to her, rambling on about their wedding with Brittany.

 **-x-**

It takes all of her willpower to not breakdown when Brittany joins Santana on stage, at the front, as she serenades her abuela , together with a blonde that wasn't her. She fights the reality that tells her she belongs only in the backdrop and that she'd never be able to be on the receiving end of that smile she shoots Brittany when the performance ends. How proud she is of Brittany, she'd never be of her. She watches, as Santana chooses Brittany over the family member she knew Santana loved and admired, remembering the times she'd gushed about her to Quinn during sleepovers and in the backdrop, Quinn's heart is torn to pieces way worse than the elder Latina's at her rejection.

 **-x-**

Her phone rings, deserted on the floor as she types furiously against the keyboard of her laptop, drowning herself in the extra credit projects she'd taken up a few days prior. Quinn blocks out the ringtone, the one that belongs to Santana, forcing herself to ignore the call. She was working on an essay for Spanish class, choking on the fact that she'd only taken Spanish in high school just to have one more class with a certain Latina. She wills herself to focus on the work at hand, but she reaches for the phone instead.

"Where the fuck are you?" her voice hits her hard, sending the excuse she'd thought up off Quinn's mind, putting her at her loss for words. She scrambles to justify her absence, but comes to a silence after filtering all that she's managed to pick up.

"Earth to Fabray?" she could almost feel Santana's breath through the speakers. Yale, she blames. She lets out the breath she didn't know she was holding in when the line goes dead after a string of Spanish fury, which she'd make out to be from a very disappointed friend.

She counts down second by second, going through the itinerary in her head as her fingers hover over the dial button. She recites the vows out loud, and waits twenty minutes, in case of any spontaneous sing-alongs conducted by the glee club alumni, then she breathes and digs for any courage she has left in her to press the button.

"You know, Santana? She's not the only one" she cuts in before the other party could hang up on her, "Sometimes I look back on photos of us, and I try to pretend that I'm the other blonde. The one that always has her hand in yours behind the blonde in the middle?" She tries to breathe when she hears her name from the other end of the line, "and the blonde whom you'd fallen in love with the very first time the two of you locked gazes? The one whose request no matter how ridiculous, you'd always agree to?"

"I really wanted to be able to go tonight," she tastes salt from liquid that has slipped onto the tip of her tongue through the ends of her lips. She chuckled dryly when Santana whimpers. "I know it's selfish of me but, I don't want to hear the very same vows that I'd long memorised from my countless daydreams in high school, when I know I'm not the one taking it with you."

"I want to be able to pretend that I still have a chance of loving you, even when I don't. Seeing you on the altar with her, it'll crush anything I hope we had. The late night cuddles in my bed, or the sobs against my shoulders on my balcony, the only times I'd have a chance of holding you in my arms longer than a moment that'd I'd be able to pass off as friendly." Quinn picks up pace as she speeds through her words, before her voice could crack and the wails she'd been holding back would be unleashed. So she pleads whatever innocence her relationship with Santana has left away, for her to not be reminded of the eventful night that lays ahead for the love of her life, the one that doesn't involve her.

"She's not the only one who would have taken the vow with you." She whispers before letting the phone fall from her hands as she lays down along with it.

Quinn lets the pieces of herself that she's pulled together go that night, as she signs an end to the fairy tale where she gets the girl instead, an alternate ending she had been waiting for. She lets herself wail, just this time, because a certain Santana Lopez no longer belongs to her, not even in her wildest dreams and she lets the reality sink in through tears, as she cries herself to sleep.

Santana didn't hang up the phone, not until late into the night, when the howls of sadness had stopped echoing from her phone speakers, when she was sure Quinn was asleep, after she'd muttered a 'good night' with a heavy chest.


End file.
